16. Radomir, Prince of the Blood

Chapter sixteen

Radomir, Prince of the Blood

Han

A fter the first time, I found it easier to tell my story. Every day or two, the tsar and I reached a new town, where the local Blood Brothers had arranged for a meeting with anyone who might be sympathetic to the cause. Sometimes one of the priests made a speech beforehand; other times they simply introduced me. We met in temples, in taverns, in houses. In some towns, dozens came; in others, only a few. The response, no matter the number, was overwhelmingly positive. In every town, I heard new stories of people who had suffered under Miroslav's reign. Some families had been unable to pay the new taxes to support Miroslav's army. Others were still angry over the loss of loved ones in the last uprising. In one town, soldiers had come through and taken over half of their crops, leaving them with little to survive the long, harsh Inzhrian winter. Borislav, having heard of this on our arrival, wrote in code to Lord Ilya's castle, asking for emergency supplies to sustain the town. When I told the men of that town what the tsar had done for them, every man in the room had been on his feet, declaring for Borislav, before I had finished speaking.

"Eight towns visited, and every man you spoke to agreed to join us. Han, you must be the Prophet reborn," Borislav said when I returned to our small room in the temple after the latest meeting.

I flushed at the slightly blasphemous praise, taking a seat on the simple bed across from him. "I'm just telling my story. They're rising up for you."

"Be that as it may, your words are what brought them to me. I could have chosen no one better to accompany me on this journey." He rose, looking out the window at the night sky. Nearby, the bells chimed for polnoch, the midnight service. "We'll be at my cousin's estate tomorrow. I had thought to approach him myself, but knowing Radomir, I can't be sure he wouldn't send me to my brother on first sight." He turned back to me. "I must, once again, rely on you to speak for me."

"I am yours to command."

He took a ring off his pinky. It was gold with a small ruby. "I will go with you as far as I can tomorrow. Two of the Brothers will accompany you to my cousin's dacha, where you will ask him for a private audience. When he grants it—and he will grant it. Radomir denies the Blood Brothers nothing—give him this and ask him to grant me a safe reception, to hear my tale from my own mouth. Have him swear on the Gifts of the Blood; he's a pious man and would never forswear himself. Once he has sworn, send the Brothers back for me, and I will join you promptly."

I took the ring. "I will."

"You are a true and loyal friend, Han."

"Thank you." I pulled off my coat and belt, not bothering to remove my pants before lying down. I would need the extra warmth. The room was already cold and likely to grow colder overnight. I'd seen a fine layer of frost on the ground as I walked back to the temple this evening. "I'll bid you goodnight."

"Otets guard your sleep," the tsar said, blowing out the candle and looking back out the window.

Despite the cold and the stiff bed I lay on, the sound of temple bells and the smell of incense wafting from the nearby altar room lulled me to sleep.

I woke the next morning to the bells of utrenya, the dawn service. After a simple breakfast of unsweetened kasha with milk, the two Blood Brothers and I began the walk to Prince Radomir's dacha. Unlike the beginning of our journey, I wouldn't go to the prince in disguise. I wore my own clothes, setting me apart from the Blood Brothers who flanked me.

According to Tsar Borislav, his cousin would remain at his country estate until Prophet's Day, the holiest day, when we celebrated the Prophet first appearing to Tsar Fima. The prince, apparently, always remained home for the holiday, preferring to celebrate in his own way, rather than to join in the celebrations of the court. As he held the most power in the tsardom after the tsar himself, he was rarely denied.

I knew little about Prince Radomir. In Borislav's first rebellion, he had sided with Miroslav, though he was rumored to have distanced himself from Miroslav after the events of Barbezht. I said a silent prayer that his apparent break with Miroslav would bode well for our cause. With the number of men at his command, his support could ensure our victory, and his enmity could ensure our demise.

I scanned the estate as we trekked along the winding cobblestone road up to the dacha. The house sat in the middle of a sprawling, frost-covered field. Made of wood, the house wasn't fortified, but it didn't need to be. Dachas were made for peace-time. In times of war, the nobles would retreat behind the heavy stone walls of their cities and castles, as would any other citizens lucky enough to have access to such protection.

Though it wasn't fortified, the estate was set up much like a castle. To the left of the main house was a bathhouse, steam rising from the roof. To the right was a small chapel, the door painted red and a gilded hawk on the steeple. In the back, I could see a large set of stables. The walls of the main house were yellow, the roof a deep green, and delicate carvings surrounded the windows.

A servant let us into the house, his eyes lingering on me as though he wondered what business I, a travel-worn commoner, could have in the home of the highest prince of the land. Looking around at the clean, well-kept hall we had entered, I wondered the same. Who was I to ask a prince for anything, even as a messenger for the tsar?

"We seek an audience with his highness," one of the Brothers said.

The servant gave a reverent bow. "May I ask on what business, honored Brothers?"

The Brother's answer was curt. "Private."

He nodded and disappeared through a door on the opposite side of the room. He returned a few moments later and said, "Follow me."

He led us through the corridors and outside again, into the courtyard behind the house. My nerves were a stone in the bottom of my stomach as we stepped back into the cold morning air. In the middle of the courtyard stood two men and a large black stallion. The first man, a servant in the same livery as the man who had greeted us, held the horse's foreleg, rubbing its neck and murmuring. The second man was a noble, as evidenced by the fine make of his blue kaftan and black ushanka-hat. His gaze was fixed on the horse. In one hand, he held a wand; in the other, a small piece of iron. He closed his eyes, muttered something I couldn't hear, and tapped the horse's immobilized foreleg.

The stallion whinnied, tossing its head. The servant continued stroking its sleek neck, and after a moment, it calmed. The nobleman stepped back and tucked the wand and iron into his pocket. "Take him back to the stable. Let me know how that leg progresses. I'll be back to check on him later tonight."

"Yes, your highness." The servant released the horse's leg and took its lead rope.

The prince turned to us. "Forgive me for not greeting you inside. My stallion broke his leg this morning. A stablehand's foolish mistake, but my fault for allowing an untested boy to handle the creature. If I hadn't treated the injury immediately, the horse might have been permanently lamed."

He'd used his magic to heal a broken bone? Was there anything the Sanctioned couldn't do?

Even more pressing: what could possibly be done against them, if we had to face that power in battle?

The prince bowed his head. "Bless me, Brothers."

One of the Blood Brothers raised his hand in blessing. "May the wisdom of the Witness, the shrewdness of the Steward, and the courage of the Prophet be with you, Radomir, prince of the Blood."

He touched his forehead in reverence, then clapped his hands together. "What brings Otets' servants to my home?"

I stepped forward and bowed, heart in my throat. "Your highness, my name is Han Antonovich, and I am here at the request of your cousin, the rightful tsar. He asked me to give you this."

He took the ring I held and turned it over in his hands. "Borislav." He looked back at me, then to the Blood Brothers at my side. "Follow me."

He led us into the house and up a set of stairs. My blood thundered in my ears. When we stopped in a warm study, the prince took a seat behind the large desk and fixed small, suspicious eyes on me.

"You come bearing a token of Borislav Vyacheslavovich, a proclaimed traitor. By all rights, I should have you arrested for this. You have one minute to convince me otherwise."

I took a deep breath. If I spoke wrong here, it could mean the end of the entire rebellion. "Miroslav has long since forfeited his right to rule Inzhria, your highness. I think you know this." He didn't even blink. His gaze revealed nothing. "Borislav is the rightful Heir of the Sanctioned. He has the support of the people and of Otets himself." I gestured to the Blood Brothers, Otets' representatives. "He wishes to speak to you. Please, grant him safe passage to come here, to plead his case for himself. Once you hear what he has to say, I'm sure you will understand."

I held my breath, watching him. The prince sat back in his chair, fidgeting with the ring. For a long moment, he was silent. Then he nodded. "I will receive him."

"Thank you, your highness." I bowed. "These Brothers can bear witness to your vow for his safety and freedom, and then they will bring the tsar to you."

Prince Radomir scowled. "My word is not enough?"

One of the Brothers took a step forward. "The Heir's safety is too important to accept anything less than a vow on the Blood itself. It is not a mark on your honor, but rather an indication of the high value we place on the life of Borislav Vyacheslavovich."

The prince's lips pinched together, but he placed his hand over his heart. "I swear on the Blood of Otets, which runs through my veins, not to harm my cousin Borislav nor to turn him over to those who would harm him, so long as he is in my lands." He looked at me. "Are you satisfied, sir?"

I nodded, some of the tension in my chest easing. "Thank you, your highness." We would survive the day, so long as Borislav was right to believe the prince wouldn't forswear himself.

The two Brothers left, and the prince waved toward a chair opposite him at the desk. "Have a seat. Han, was it?" He squinted his eyes in suspicion. "That's not an Inzhrian name."

"No, it's not." I fought to remain still beneath the weight of his gaze. "My mother had a taste for the exotic, your highness. She named me after a famous Vasland warrior."

"I see." He rang a bell, and a few moments later a servant arrived. "Han Antonovich will be joining me for dinner, as will…" His gaze flicked to me. "Another guest."

"Yes, your highness."

The prince turned to the pile of paperwork on his desk as the servant left. Minutes ticked by, the only sound the low crackle of the fire in the grate. The glove I wore on the end of my right arm grew uncomfortable, and I tugged at the strap. Why was it so tight today? Another tug, and the glove fell onto the floor with a thud.

My heart skipped a beat, and I looked up to see the prince watching me. Comprehension dawned on his face. "Ah. You're a survivor of Barbezht."

"I am, your highness." I realized, belatedly, that his vow had made no mention of my own safety and freedom.

"I see why my cousin trusts you. You've already given up much for him." Seeing the cautious look on my face, he waved a hand. "Naturally, my vow extends to you as well. Safety for my cousin applies to his men. I would not break an oath to Otets on a mere technicality."

The tightness in my chest eased considerably. "Thank you, your highness."

The time dragged on. Finally, I heard footsteps in the hall, and a servant entered. "Your remaining guest has arrived, Prince Radomir. He awaits you in the dining hall."

As we entered the room, Borislav rose to meet his cousin. "Radomir. It's been too long."

"Would that I could say the same, cousin, but the last time we saw each other was on opposite sides of a battlefield. I can't pretend I'm glad to see you." He took a seat at the head of the long table and gestured for us to sit as well.

Borislav smiled sadly as he sat. "I'm sorry to hear that. I thought perhaps you had mourned my loss and were glad to hear that I was alive."

Radomir fixed him with a deadpan look. "You know as well as I that we knew you were alive. You can thank me for your survival. If it hadn't been for my council, Miroslav would have hunted you to the ends of the earth. I convinced him you had learned your place. It seems I was wrong."

"It's not I who has failed to learn my place, Radomir."

"I never discuss business on an empty stomach." The prince bowed his head and said a brief blessing over the food, hearty bowls of cabbage soup swimming with ham, black bread fresh from the oven, and large cups of dark kvass. He waved at the food. "Eat."

True to his word, the prince didn't let us speak until we had all eaten. At last, he pushed his plate back. "Very well, Borislav. Make your case."

Borislav cast a wary glance at the servants that were clearing food from the table.

"Speak, cousin. My servants are completely loyal to me. Nothing said in my house leaves these walls unless I wish it. Not even for Tsar Miroslav."

The tsar's mouth formed a line, but he nodded. "You're a pious man, Radomir. You've read our scriptures, the words of the Witness, Steward, and Prophet. What does Otets require of the Heir?"

"That he be just and merciful, a wise ruler, caring for all those he has charge of." He took a drink of his kvass. "What of it?"

Borislav leaned forward, his expression earnest, brow knit together. "Can you say, truthfully, that Miroslav meets all those requirements?"

"That would depend on how one perceives it, I suppose."

I gritted my teeth to keep from speaking. No one could pretend Miroslav cared for his people. Not for the common people, at least. Perhaps for the nobles, but not for me. Not for Mila. If this prince thought Miroslav was a fitting tsar, he was either a fool or wicked, but either way he would be no help to us.

"Do not mince words." The tsar's eyes narrowed. "My brother is neither just, merciful, nor wise. He cares for no one but himself. Don't the scriptures say that an Heir may be Disinherited if he fails to discharge his duties as Otets commanded? Miroslav has failed to do so. We must rise against him."

"The standards for a Disinheritance are high, Borislav. Are you certain they've all been met?"

I thrust my right arm forward. "This is Miroslav's ‘mercy,'" I snarled. I was speaking out of turn, but I couldn't stop myself. "You know what he did to those of us who knelt after Barbezht. Most of my brothers in arms were killed when he ordered their hands removed."

Radomir looked dispassionately at me. "The Heir is required to uphold justice in the land, not just mercy. This was nothing more."

I clenched my fist. "There is no justice in maiming and killing a defeated enemy. Especially if that enemy has surrendered."

Before I could speak again, the tsar leaned forward. "Han Antonovich speaks the truth, Radomir. What my brother offers the people is neither justice nor mercy. This new army he has built is not a means of caring for the people, but for serving himself and bringing himself glory. Soldiers in this army are given freedom to do whatever they wish. They commit crimes with impunity. We passed through a town here on your lands just yesterday where the soldiers took half of their winter stores. Tell me, does that sound like Miroslav is caring for the people he has charge of?"

Biting my cheek to keep from speaking, I watched as the prince considered our words. "You have a point," he said. "But your last rebellion failed. What makes you think this one will be any different?"

Maybe he wasn't the fool I'd thought. Some of the tension in my body dissipated. I could respect a man who didn't rush into war, as long as he didn't claim that Miroslav was a good tsar. Still… "This uprising won't fail. The people are desperate for a change. Even if Tsar Borislav loses, if he dies, the people will continue to rise up. They'll make a Disinheritance themselves, and once they've removed one of the Sanctioned from the throne, they won't be eager to accept another."

The prince narrowed his small eyes at me. "Is that a threat, Han Antonovich? The Blood of Otets runs in my veins. I will not be frightened by the unSanctioned."

"No threat," Borislav said, leaning forward, "but a fact. Our ranks are already growing at an unprecedented rate. The people of Inzhria are going to end Miroslav's reign, and they are going to end whoever supports him, as well. The only reason Miroslav won at Barbezht was because he brought in a foreign army. Once they see the rebellion is still alive, no other country will be willing to lend him aid. This uprising will be Inzhrian and Inzhrian alone.

"Cousin." Borislav took the prince's hand, his voice going low and earnest. "You can ensure the safety of our people. You know I will care for them as Otets intended. Join me, make a Disinheritance of my brother, and we can ensure the tsardom comes through this war in one piece."

The two men stared at each other. Silence rang in my ears, unbearably loud. I clenched my fist, digging my nails into my palm. What would we do if he refused? How would we defeat Miroslav without Radomir's men?

At last, the prince nodded. "I will join you. But bear in mind, Borislav, this is not for your glory. This is for the faith and the good of the realm. Were you found to be as undeserving an Heir as your brother, I would not hesitate to make a Disinheritance of you as well."

"I would expect nothing less," Borislav answered.